


What Can I Give You In Return?

by CaptainSlow



Series: Coming Back To You Universe [11]
Category: Rammstein
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:20:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25039147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainSlow/pseuds/CaptainSlow
Summary: He both hears and feels Richard inhale the scent of his skin, nose just above his ear, his breath sounding laborious as if he was doing his best to hold back something he desperately wished he could say.And Paul knows what it is, oh man, does he know it.
Relationships: Richard Kruspe/Paul Landers
Series: Coming Back To You Universe [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785925
Comments: 14
Kudos: 47





	What Can I Give You In Return?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cecirosenrot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cecirosenrot/gifts).



_And the planets gravitate around you  
And the stars, the stars surround you  
And the angels in heaven adore you  
And the saints, the saints all stand and applaud you_

_What can I give you?  
What can I give you _

_In return?_ _*©_

**11.12.2010, New York**

Ever since the moment the final riffs and blasts of the concert died down, Paul has been feeling weirdly unsettled. On a regular concert day, he would be squeezed like a lemon – especially given the fact that it is the last gig of this particular leg of the tour, one which was full of early morning long-haul flights, too – so, after making a brief appearance at an afterparty, he would head for bed, more often than not with Richard in tow as they shared one of their hotel rooms, whichever seemed to suit them best. This time, though, despite his being drained both physically and emotionally, with the long string of concerts of the entire tour taking its toll at last, Paul can't seem to be able to relax no matter how hard he tries, and, predictably, the harder he actually tries, the less successful his attempts are.

It started during the concert itself, sometime in the middle of it when it finally hit home – they _really_ were playing the Madison Square Garden at last, a venue which twenty years ago had seemed to be located in some sort of a parallel universe, a sacred dream of conquering America which had persistently eluded them until now. Yet, here they were, in the very heart of it, with the show sold out not even in a matter of hours but minutes. At long last, they were a success here, too, and as Paul watched the roaring crowd, random faces highlighted by the flashes of stage lights and flares of fire, as he heard the deafening pyro explosions accompanied by the heavy guitar riffs, his mind suddenly decided to take him on a trip down the memory lane into the past.

The destination turned out to be a different time and a different country, with those untroubled balmy summer days and nights filled with fragrances of the sea, forest and endless meadows, full of wild parties and open-air festivals; to that particular night from the time before any thought of Rammstein was even conceived, when Richard, lying snuggled into in Paul's arms, relaxed and warm, shared with him what must have been his most precious dream – to perform at huge venues in front of thousands, with flames springing up and pyro blasts roaring, with reverberations of the music they were playing permeating the entire place so that you could feel it in your very bones.

Looking at the audience at that moment, the elaborately installed stage lights, sparks, smoke, explosions and people going bonkers as one amidst it all, chanting lyrics in German, Paul suddenly realised that _this is it_ , this was what Richard had been dreaming of all his life, his most sacred wish which had also become Paul's long ago. Overwhelmed, Paul turned his head to give his bandmate a glance, as if to prove to himself that the man and the dream had finally merged to become reality. He couldn't see Richard's face well enough to be able to distinguish his emotions, but his body language was sufficiently eloquent for him to know for sure that he, too, was acutely in the moment, living his dream and savouring every second of it. Unbeknownst to himself, Paul grinned at his fellow guitarist, a smile full of delight for his friend, for himself, for all of them.

When at some point their eyes finally met, the unspoken communication between them worked its miracles again, allowing them to understand each other's thoughts perfectly through this unfathomable, almost telepathic, contact they had always shared. There was a kind of light in Richard's eyes then, the kind which Paul wasn't sure he had seen many times before. All those long years ago, back in the day of their careless daydreaming when everything had seemed awfully simple and thereby possible, that kind of light in Richard's eyes had got Paul helplessly captivated by him, and now, in the middle of the stage in the middle of their only concert on American soil, the same thing seemed to be happening to Paul yet again, that inevitable, irresistible, unstoppable falling for him. Presently, Richard's smile, open and unguarded and radiant as a child's, spoke volumes, too, and Paul nodded at him from a distance, wanting to somehow convey that that summer night so many years ago, with Richard uncustomarily lying in Paul's arms and dreamily telling him about playing for thousands of people, together, was as alive in his memory as it most probably was in Richard's.

And this is where it started, this simultaneously nagging and wistful feeling which originated in his chest and spread to his stomach. That said, there was also a pleasant quality to it, an achingly sweet emotion which seemed so big and so profound that it filled him whole threatening to make him burst. He stared back at Richard, somehow intuitively knowing that this was happening because of him, that his sometimes troublesome and way too stubborn and yet at the same time so dazzling and marvellous fellow guitarist was the reason of his sudden disquiet. Afterwards, Paul simply couldn't take his gaze away anymore, not for the life of him. He saw Richard's radiant smile, his sparkling eyes, the way his body moved, hips swaying temptingly; saw his hands on the strings of his fancy guitar, black nail polish and the studs on his jeans glistening in the stage lights; he stared at him helplessly, desperately wishing to be wrapped into those arms, wishing to be close, so close as to literally taste this moment, savour it because it belonged solely to the two of them even whilst they were surrounded by thousands.

The visual contact between them was broken after a while, but not this odd connection. Paul could still feel Richard's presence as acutely as if he were standing in his comfort zone, and, truth be told, over the past twenty-odd years that zone had shrunk to become pretty much non-existent – nothing was uncomfortably close for the two of them, it could only be not close enough. This was how the rest of the concert went for Paul, with him not being able to draw his gaze away from Richard as if it was pulled to him by gravity; with Richard giving him those occasional glances, full of radiant light spilling from them, reaching Paul, thawing something inside of him which has been frozen for years, making him yearn; yearn Richard, yearn that smile, yearn that light in his eyes until his hands started to shake and his knees felt like jelly.

When they were done at last – and wasn't it ridiculous, him not being able to wait until arguably the most important concert in their career finally ended – he almost literally dragged Richard through the backstage whirl and into the showers, craving his presence desperately, needing to feel him, every inch of his skin on his own, wanting to be close, _now_ , taste on the tip of Richard's tongue those recollections which had so suddenly arisen, share them, preserve them in both of their memories, make this night their own night, too, their special night, just like that one so many years ago. Under the streams of warm water, he jerked them both off, crushing Richard's mouth to his hungrily, forcefully, until their lips stung, and Richard responded to him in the same fashion, murmuring those damnable words of love Paul had so meticulously and resolutely been trying to eliminate from their lexicon. Now, though, for some reason, there was no struggle left in him anymore, and he allowed Richard to muffle that seemingly never-ending string of _lovelovelove_ against his lips and his cheeks and his eyes, feeling how it did something to him, too. It hurt to hear it, it frightened him, yet it also amplified the sensation in his chest, that sweet ache that had been evoked during the concert.

A quick shower, a considerably longer afterparty and a short ride to the hotel later, and here Paul is, lying wide-awake in the king-size bed of the suite they are occupying. It is coming on small hours of the morning, and the sky outside is the blackest it possibly gets at this time of year, all the numerous stars in it blotted out by the city illumination. There is a sound of running water coming from the bathroom, muted and monotonous, which should be lulling him to sleep but isn't working this time, leaving Paul staring out of the panoramic window of the room at the artificial electric lights, bright and steady, and unable to get Richard out of his head. It's not as if he were trying to get him out of there – why would he, he has been waiting for him to finally vacate the damn bathroom and join him in bed – but the memory of that radiant smile and those twinkling eyes refuses to leave, stubbornly standing in front of his mind's eye, perhaps the most beautiful smile he's ever seen on his lifelong companion's face.

When, at long last, Richard emerges out of the bathroom, the electronic clock on the wall shows an almost quarter to three, inexorably reminding Paul of the oncoming morning. That's fine, though – for once there is nowhere to rush to in the morning since the Madison show was the last concert of this leg of the tour, so for the few following days, Richard is his to have and the city is theirs to explore. Paul's eyes are irresistibly drawn to his fellow guitarist once he hears the click of the bathroom door, and they are immediately gratified for their effort of staying open for so long. With a towel wrapped around his hips and his wet hair carelessly swept back off his brow, Richard looks, unsurprisingly, as immaculate as a marble statue of some ancient god. He is in a stunning shape these days – he's always been – a body that sealed Paul's fate so many years ago, giving him recurring dreams full of hot muscled limbs and toned ass; a body he's helplessly been attracted to; a body next to which he truly feels like being home; a body he's always sought desperately in order to escape from reality whenever it took a harsh turn, to find consolation, to give some sense of solidity to life itself, and then, at moments when he was convinced that there was nothing at all left of their feelings for each other, he yearned it even more desperately. Fatigued as he is, Paul still feels like kissing it from the top of Richard's wet head to his slender ankles, repeatedly.

"Thought you'd be out like a light once we got back," Richard says quietly, fetching a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the nightstand. "You looked on the verge of dozing off right in the car."

There is that kind of smile on his face again, mild and pleased, full of warmth coming from deep within him.

"No such luck," Paul sighs in reply, once again almost mesmerised by it. "That's been a hell of a long day."

Richard hums his agreement and when he is about to step away from the bed, on the spur of the moment, Paul reaches out to hook a finger under the edge of the towel. He pulls at it lightly until the material unwraps itself from Richard's hips and slips down onto the floor, leaving the latter stark naked with his private parts a mere foot away from Paul's grinning face.

"Hey, what was that for?" Richard inquires, shifting his eyes between the departed garment and Paul himself. "I thought you were too tired for this."

"I don't see you naked often enough," Paul states by way of explanation, silently asking himself since when observing Richard stripped off his clothes for a couple months in a row has become _not enough_. "And I do love to see you naked. Go on, have your smoke, humour me."

"Think New York doesn't see me naked often enough, either?" Richard grins, quizzically arching one of his dark eyebrows, but obliges all the same and heads for the window.

Watching that round ass and the perfectly shaped toned legs flex as he walks, Paul only hums something under his breath in agreement, simultaneously feeling a stir in his nether regions and that unsettling sensation from before, something fluttering in the pit of his stomach, making him feel both anxious and yearning at the same time.

"I think New York has been seeing unforgivably much of you," he murmurs under his breath, not sure if it's just in his head or if he is actually speaking out loud.

Being envious of, of all things, a city seems exceptionally absurd, so when it turns out he must have voiced his thoughts since Richard gives him a somewhat perplexed glance from his spot at the window, Paul only smiles back and shrugs in response, not sure what else he could possibly add to that. There is something he feels he needs to tell Richard, for sure, but he needs to shape it in proper words first because that something is vitally important for them both. For a while, they remain in comfortable silence, Richard smoking slowly and seemingly savouring every single inhale of his drug of choice, eyes fixed on a far point on the horizon, his face illuminated both by the mild glow from the bedside lamp and by the city lighting outside. The scattered lights serve as a nice background, favourably accentuating Richard's profile.

Somehow, again, it reminds Paul of that August night all those years ago, back in Richard's house in Schwerin, the starry sky above them reflecting in Richard's wide-open eyes as Paul took him for the first time, the entangled knot of various feelings making him breathless with emotion. He wonders what he would have said had he known that, almost twenty-five years later, he would still look at Richard with the same mixture of feelings, unable to take his eyes off him, desiring him with the same intensity if not more, adoring him, caring about him and wanting to kiss him stupid. He wonders what he would have said had he known that, more than two decades on, they would still be together, still seeking refuge in each other's arms, and that this refuge would become his home from home. He wonders what he would have thought had he known that they would, miraculously, end up on the same stage, in the midst of fire blasts, performing in front of thousands, in the country which had always seemed so awfully distant, unreachable and unconquerable.

Yet, against all odds, here they are; two guys from the former East Germany, in a top floor suite of one of the most luxurious hotels in New York, having sold out and played the Madison Square Garden, with Richard idling with a late-night cigarette, naked, leaning against the floor-to-ceiling window, and Paul watching him from the comfort of a king-size bed and still so improbably in love with him.

And this is where Paul's sleepy thoughts come to a crashing halt, tumbling over one another under their own momentum. Before he has a chance to comprehend what has just happened in his head, Richard's voice returns him into the real world.

"I wish I could somehow teleport back to Schwerin from here, just for a couple of hours, to see the dawn there. Remember?" he asks, eyes still fixed elsewhere, apparently not seeing New York in front of them but the very scene that Paul can so effortlessly recall, too.

He opens his mouth but, for some reason, no sound comes out. It is an odd coincidence that they are thinking about the very same night at the very same moment. Or, perhaps, it really isn't a coincidence at all. That starry night filled with August fragrances spent in the middle of East German nowhere was, after all, some kind of a turning point, one of the many in their lives, for both of them. If Paul looks inside himself, travelling so many years back in time, he will still be able to see Richard's eyes, clear as day, first uncertain and nervous, then plain scared yet also filled with so much almost palpable desire, and then so awfully in love as Paul made love to him. And then he'll be able to recall those same eyes as the two of them were snuggling in Richard's old bed, dreamily looking back at him but apparently still seeing that vision he'd just shared with Paul, one about fame and glory and playing huge venues like Kiss and Led Zeppelin did.

When a while passes and Paul still hasn't come up with anything to say, dumbstruck by all the recent events and the surge of vivid recollections from such distant past, Richard diverts his gaze from the renowned skyline and shifts it to Paul instead. Their eyes remain locked for a while, and then, ever so softly, Richard speaks again.

"Paul?" he asks, apparently merely trying to draw Paul's attention to himself, or maybe wanting to know if he's quite okay, or perhaps wishing he could say something else.

What Paul is certain of, as well as terrified of, too, is that he, for one, definitely _wants_ to say something to Richard, something which should have been said many years ago but wasn't. It wouldn't do to speak when there is so much distance left between them, though. For some reason, communication has always worked better when he and Richard were entangled into each other's limbs, as if those additional points of contact somehow managed to convey everything which they failed to get across or simply left unsaid.

So Paul gets off the bed, just as naked as Richard is, and walks to him slowly, bare feet padding softly and soundlessly on the thick carpet. Richard's eyes follow his every move, trailing up from Paul's toes along his legs, his dick, stomach, bare chest and finally ending up locked with his eyes again, and Paul can swear he can physically feel the weight of his gaze on himself, heavy but warm, like some down duvet you'd with to crawl under in the dead of winter. There is also something else in it, though, some sort of inner wistfulness, and suddenly it makes Paul's throat clench.

Richard's arms open welcomingly as Paul approaches him, and he steps into his lover's embrace like he'd step into his safe haven, feeling right, secure and at home. Richard's hands, warm and just a little rough, feel awfully familiar on his skin, so familiar it is a crime that they touch him so rarely these days, with Richard living between two continents for the past decade. They slide gently from his shoulders and down over his back, to his ass, pulling him even closer until their hips touch, making both of them hitch a breath as their dicks brush against each other. Then they slide up again until his arms securely enfold Paul in his embrace. He both hears and feels Richard inhale the scent of his skin, nose just above his ear, his breath sounding laborious as if he was doing his best to hold back something he desperately wished he could say.

And Paul knows what it is, oh man, does he know it.

With one hand entangled into Richard's moist hair, fingers brushing over the nape of his neck and his lips leaving a trail of not quite fully formed kisses from his sharply defined jaw-line up to his ear, Paul murmurs the words he's been so averse to saying for the past ten years, words which were so easily said once, and which, somehow perversely, turned into an accusation later.

"I love you," he whispers so very quietly it's almost soundless, squeezing his eyes tightly shut as if scared to face the real world around them, as if wanting to drop into that one memory they are sharing tonight and be able to say those words to Richard back then, and then on every following occasion he should have said them but didn't. "I love you," he repeats, amazed at how profoundly gratifying it is to say it out loud, taken aback by how much he has actually _wanted_ to say it.

In response, he feels Richard's arms tightening around him with such force he is pressed flush against him, their fronts touching from their heads down to their feet.

"Paul…" he mutters on an exhale, voice sounding oddly raw and rough.

Then, there's the weight of Richard's head on Paul's shoulder, his breaths of the same quality as his voice, irregular and raw. Paul clings to him, silently, because there's nothing else to say, really, and because Richard obviously needs some time to deal with this long overdue confession. Paul allows him to have it, holding him and holding onto him, lips on the side of his neck below his ear, breathing in his scent and the memory of his scent, sun-warmed skin and sweat and the fragrance of that August night dissolved in the air thick and heavy with humidity.

When, after a while, Paul feels Richard lift his head off his shoulder, he relocates his hand to his face, bringing their foreheads together, and is both startled and devastated to feel the moisture against his fingertips, moisture which certainly doesn't come from Richard's damp hair.

"I'm sorry it's taken me so long," he whispers against those so familiar, so desired lips, wondering if it would have been this easy to tell Richard he loved him years ago or if it was, after all, totally beyond his ability. "I'm so sorry…"

"This is too fucking much for one day, I swear…" Richard huffs in response, sniffling a little.

"Richard…"

"Shhh," Richard shushes him shaking his head minutely and pressing his lips to Paul's to muffle whatever confessions Paul might produce next. "I thought I was unable to do it anymore…"

"Do what?" Paul whispers, unnerved by such an unexpected reaction from Richard and not quite following the route his thoughts have taken.

As he brushes the wetness off his lover's cheeks, his thumbs tremble noticeably, apparently both from the general physical exhaustion after the long day and the long tour which preceded it and from being so profoundly rattled by Richard's tears.

"Cry," Richard responds, voice still clipped. "I haven't in more than a decade, you know? I… just couldn't, except for those times I asked you to deepthroat me because, otherwise, nothing came. It's… oh god, Paul…"

"Does it still hurt so much?" Paul asks, surprised by his confession whist knowing he shouldn't be – he suspected that much himself, after all. "I--"

"No, it's the other way around," Richard interrupts him shaking his head a little. "It's like… when the pain's taken away, there's relief and it's all too much," he sighs shakily and then hugs Paul tightly once more. "I never even knew it was this important to me, to hear you say it again… it's like finally putting all those horrible years behind us."

Silently, Paul stands in Richard's embrace, their naked bodies pressed so close to each other that he can sense Richard's heartbeat against his own chest and against his lips which nuzzle the side of Richard's neck. Somehow, it feels like the rightest love confession he's ever said in his life, which is strange as he's always thought that the very first one should by rights be unforgettable. That first time he told Richard he loved him is, of course, hard to forget, yet the memory is also tainted by other recollections, much less pleasant ones, drugs and booze galore, and the subsequent fiasco of catastrophic proportions which treacherously happened when neither of them anticipated any problems whatsoever. What is different now – at least he very dearly hopes it is – is that both of them are aware of the devastating ramifications which will certainly follow if they screw up this time around, and so, perhaps, it will help them do their best to try and avoid screwing anything up because this, this precious thing they have managed to nurture and preserve together, is indeed worth saving.

Gingerly, he allows his hands to travel all the way up from Richard's back to his shoulders and the back of his head and then down, doing it excruciatingly slowly, soothingly, by touch remembering every single perfect curve of his body, the hot skin every square inch of which is so familiar he can visualise it with his eyes closed.

"I'm so proud of you, Richard," Paul says softly.

For some reason, once the band was formed and they were bound not only by purely sexual relationship but also by professional obligations, giving praise to each other got so perversely deprecated it started to seem humiliating, and it's only now, after years upon years of this senseless competition they got themselves into so long ago, that Paul suddenly understands how little appreciation they have shown each other, utterly undeservedly. What he says now, surprising even himself, is evoked by what he's been thinking about the entire evening through, ever since the moment he saw that smile on Richard's face back during the gig, the radiance in it making him finally realise that he genuinely admires this man he's so lucky to have by his side.

"I'm proud of _us_ ," Richard replies in kind. "None of this would have been possible without our constant grappling. For all the bad it did us, it still made Rammstein what it is now. And we survived it, too. This is our night, Paul, yours and mine. We have done it, _together_."

And, somehow, it disarms Paul completely. He's not an idiot, even though at times Richard must have certainly taken him for one; he has noticed every single tiny step Richard has taken towards their reconciliation after the major fuckup of the Mutter times, every single time he has swallowed his pride, making concessions, trying to reach a compromise, just shutting up and leaving when he couldn't do either all for the sake of preventing another disaster which neither of them would surely survive; every single _'I love you'_ Richard has said out loud despite Paul's unwillingness to hear about it and every single one he yearned to say but didn't solely for Paul's sake. For the first time since their talk in this very city so many years ago when he came here to tell Richard it was over and didn't manage to, Paul wonders just how badly it has hurt Richard to smother those words time and time again, year after year, and somehow, against all odds, still preserve that love in him. It seems like for the first time over an unforgivably long period, Paul truly admires Richard, without any reservations whatsoever, admires him for what he is and for what he has become.

" _This_ seemed so awfully far-fetched back then, on that night in Schwerin," Paul murmurs softly, in response to what Richard said a while back. "Us from the GDR, turning into someone like Kiss… we made equipment from scratch and played some pissant shitholes, hell, you and I, we'd been laying shingles that day before we ended up on your roof--"

"And you were total shit at it," Richard chuckles.

"No, I wasn't," due to the old habit, Paul contradicts with a smile.

"Yes, you were… or maybe I was," his lover laughs, and it sounds so unexpectedly light-hearted it gives Paul a surge of new hope.

"The point is, both of us were so hopeless we flopped it anyway, and there you were, talking about stadiums and being a rockstar…" he hears Richard huff softly again and feels his arms tightening around his middle. "And, for some reason, I knew that if I could, I'd lay it all down at your feet, I swear, that was my very thought which was both ludicrous and somehow wasn't because I was so stupidly in love with you. I wanted you to stop having that look of a terrified deer caught in headlights you sometimes got when we were together and just give me a smile… like the one you gave me at the show today. I couldn't take my eyes off you, Richard, it was like that night all over again, but you weren't dreaming about the big stage anymore, you were on it, and I just… as if I fell in love with you for the first time, but all over again, and I don't think I can go on pretending that I don't give a toss about your love."

"So I'm finally allowed to speak of it whenever I feel like?" Richard asks softly, ever so softly. He sounds laid-back and calm but Paul can still detect the echo of the pain inflicted such a long time ago, still present even if carefully suppressed. "To say that I love you without being hissed at all the time and told to stick it up?"

"If it's not too late…" Paul sighs, knowing it cannot be because here he is, right in Richard's arms, held as tight as he's ever been, the cosiest place he's ever known. Yet, he still needs Richard's reassurance – after all, it's him who has been subjected to Paul's relentless rejection for the past decade.

"Do you know how many times I have wished that I didn't love you? So that it would stop hurting so much."

"Probably as many times as I have?" Paul asks cautiously and is rewarded with another chuckle.

"Probably as many. Do you think we could leave the hurt behind? There's no goddamn album to write in the foreseeable future, can we just enjoy life and fame and each other again? Like it was in the beginning?"

"Come back to Berlin? For good?" Going off on a tangent, Paul asks by way of answering Richard's question. "I cannot stand the thought of you being here alone and me across a fucking ocean knowing I should have been there for you and loved you all these years."

"Will you have me in Berlin?"

Somehow, to Paul it seems that it should be obvious to Richard that this is the only thing he desperately wants, yet there is so much tangible uncertainty in his voice as he asks the question that it makes another penny drop for Paul. And isn't it funny how they still, after almost a quarter of a century of being together, have so much to learn about each other. Once again, Paul wonders just how Richard has managed to stand it for so long, his cold shoulder and refusal to acknowledge his true feelings, and nonetheless persevere and love Paul no matter what. This is what true love must be, then, surely?

"I'll buy you a damn ticket myself," he promises and means every single word of it. "Will help you settle there again. Will arrange stuff with your renovation, which has been dragging on for years because your flat's in Berlin and you're stuck here for the better part of a year. What else do you need me to do to prove to you that I will, in all senses, have you in Berlin, permanently, in any way you please? Because I'll do it."

He feels Richard shake his head minutely, and, for a moment, it sends a spike of dread down his spine. So here he is, finally getting a taste of his own medicine – this is where Richard tells him to stick it up his own ass and never mention the word love ever again. But it lasts only for one terrifying second because then Richard leans back and Paul can see his eyes, and everything somehow falls into place.

"Nothing," Richard replies with a smile which is oh so mild on his lips yet so prominently radiant in his eyes. "You don't have to do anything, I'll come back because I miss Berlin and I miss speaking my mother tongue and most of all I miss you, Paul. Sometimes I missed you so much I didn't know what to do with myself."

"Why didn't you return then? Called at least?" Paul asks, surprised, but knowing he shouldn't be, not really. He knows the reason, after all.

"Because I wasn't sure you needed me as much," Richard says softly, sounding a bit flustered and a lot more dismayed. When Paul opens his mouth to object, Richard shushes him with a thumb across his lips and shakes his head. "That's not an accusation or a reprimand, Paul, that's as much my problem as it's yours; I know I should have known that you love me anyway, no one in their right mind would have stuck with me through it all otherwise, but…" he shrugs, still smiling that little smile. "Let's just put it all behind us?"

Paul nods but says what he was going to say anyway, feeling he still owes at last some sort of explanation to Richard. And besides, if they don't talk, don't tell it all as it is, who knows for how long they will managed to avoid another catastrophe.

"It seemed safer to pretend there was no love than have it and destroy it again," he murmurs softly, the old wounds still not completely healed and the scars still too tender.

"I know," Richard nods and pulls Paul back into his arms. "I know, love."

For the first time in years, that _'love'_ doesn't sound like a verdict but like a blessing instead. In response, Paul moves his lips to Richard's until they're finally joint in every way possible, in each other's arms, skin on skin, sharing one breath and heartbeat.

"I'll never see the joy of living here in this country, but I guess I should be forever grateful to America for repeatedly bringing my love to me," he mutters quietly. "For some reason, it always happens here."

"I guess we could always return here to remind each other about that," Richard chuckles.

"I think you've said that before, and--"

"We'll do better this time, Paul. Because we're better. It has to account for something," he says and he sounds enviably hopeful, but that's Richard for you, still a dreamer. "Besides, there was never anything bad about love, it's what we did to it that was bad."

Paul sighs his consent, closing his eyes and for the first time in god knows how long actually letting go of whatever fears and reservations he might have and entrusting himself and his future completely to Richard. It does feel daunting, but then again, he's been there before, hasn't he? Back then, all those years ago, willingly coaxing Richard, a man he'd barely known for but a few weeks, into that stinky bathroom and giving himself to him over on a plate, trusting him enough to let him take him in whichever way he thought suitable. And he has never regretted it. He used to think he did at certain points in the past, but those were other regrets, none of them actually connected with meeting Richard and falling for him the way he did, head over heels, desperately and irrevocably.

If he blindly trusted him enough back when he scarcely knew him at all, surely, he can trust him now, having been through thick and thin with him, having shared what seems like every single thing in their lives, from food to bed to job to dreams and ambitions to love.

The thought makes Paul smile against Richard's shoulder as he's finally feeling considerably more relieved and at peace with himself, as if the weight of the world has suddenly been lifted off his shoulders.

"Come," he whispers, pulling Richard away from his place at the window and into the depths of the dimly-lit room.

Richard follows willingly, and as they walk, Paul changes places with him, ending up behind him with his arms around Richard's waist. They stop beside the bed, facing a floor-to-ceiling mirror on the wall. Paul has no idea if it is just a coincidence or whether Richard has actually chosen a room with such interior design on purpose, but whatever it is, he feels like putting the mirror to good use, especially since the occasion definitely calls for it.

"Just look at you," Paul murmurs, lips brushing his lover's shoulder as he speaks.

His eyes meet Richard's in the reflection in the mirror, and they seem to shine from the inside, radiating an emotion Paul has seen in them on many prior occasions. In the past, though, it used to be subdued, smothered both by Paul's own reluctance to notice it and by Richard's attempts to conceal it not to traumatise and irk him further, whereas now it seems to be amplified manifold, at last reaching its full radiance. He doesn't need Richard to say anything about love whatsoever, words are utterly unnecessary because he can see all he needs to know in Richard's gaze, all the love and gratitude and respect and desire and tenderness Richard has always had for him.

Not breaking the visual contact, Paul allows one of his hands to slide ever so slowly off Richard's shoulder, fingertips tracing the muscles of his upper arm, and relocates it to his side, splayed over his skin as it moves to Richard's abdomen and lower still before it finally stops over his hip.

"You're absolutely," he whispers kissing Richard's shoulder for good measure and then meeting his eyes again, "truly glorious."

There's a smile stretching the corners of Richard's lips as he observes the reflection of the two of them, looking like he definitely likes what he sees.

"Your type, after all?" he asks, sounding just a tad teasing but content all the same.

Paul can't help but grin back at him.

"Always," he replies, kissing the side of Richard's neck at his leisure, then his jaw and ending up against his ear, Richard inclining his head to give Paul a better access.

As Paul's hand goes on with its exploration and reaches his not all that very flaccid flesh, Richard sucks in a slightly shaky inhale.

"You've always been mine," he says softly, "ever since the moment you lured me into that bathroom, and then into your bed, and then then into your life. I fell for you so hard that summer I couldn't take either my hands or my eyes off you."

"I think I used it shamelessly," Paul chuckles as he reminisces about those summer nights he and Richard spent together in various places and in various fashions but all of which were so full of that youthful, carefree passion and good cheer, about times before any of them encountered any serious problems in their lives, before their differences finally became way too pronounced, before there were responsibilities for their own future, for the future of other people depending on them and for their jobs.

"I think you made it your purpose to drive me frantic with want," Richard's voice pulls Paul back from those untroubled nights so many years ago and into the present hotel room settings. "And you succeeded in it, too."

As Paul smiles, his eyes are drawn back to the mirror in front of them, to Richard's relaxed posture, his body just the ideal combination of lean muscles and meaty flesh which enticed Paul so very long ago; to his good-natured smirk; to his eyes, dark and somewhat dreamy in this semi-darkness; to his half-erected cock Paul's fondling in his hand at his leisure; the beauty of the whole sight, the beauty of the two of them together, making something ache in his chest again, but it finally is a pleasant ache.

"Look at you," Paul repeats, drawing Richard's attention to the mirror in front of them, too. "I want you to see what I see every time I make love to you because you're such a gratifying sight."

The softest of laughs which leaves Richard's mouth is also nothing short of gratifying, and when he half-turns his head towards Paul, the latter claims his mouth readily and gratefully.

"Then love me," Richard murmurs between the maddeningly slow, wet kisses they are sharing, his hips thrusting into the firm hold of Paul's hand on his swiftly growing hard-on. "Right here, like only you can."

To that, Paul obliges with pleasure. They are both extremely tired as this day of their only New York concert seems to have been endless, the standard morning routine of soundchecks and interviews so far away in time from this present moment which witnesses them finally becoming what they were supposed to be right at the very beginning of it all, two people loving each other beyond all sense and reason. A bed might suit them better in these activities, a sound sleep even more so, yet this weariness has its benefits too – it makes their lovemaking slow and unhurried, allowing Paul to enjoy and live through every single moment of realising just how much he actually loves the man bending down in front of him and arching his back to give Paul a better access and leverage to that tantalisingly glorious ass of his, allowing Richard to see every single agonising moment of pleasure they're sharing, the way Paul has been blessed to see him for the past twenty-odd years of their lives.

With his hands propped onto both sides of the large mirror, his fingers leaving sweaty imprints on its immaculately clean surface, and his legs a feet or so apart, he takes Paul in in one smooth sliding motion, no discomfort detectable in him whatsoever thanks to the previous year on the road they have spent with each other. The air leaves Richard's lungs in a vocalised exhale and he bites his lower lip, bending a little lower as he searches for that perfect position, but his eyes remain pinned to the mirror, keenly observing everything that is going on behind him, following Paul's every action with hungry attention from his front row vantage point.

As Paul starts to move inside of him, slowly and steadily, it is obvious it is getting more difficult for Richard by the minute to keep his eyes open, especially when Paul's cock finally brushes against his prostate making Richard jerk and thrust back seeking more pressure and friction. His eyelids slip shut but only for a moment, the next second opening again. His gaze meets Paul's briefly and then relocates back to the sight the mirror offers him.

"This is…" he mutters, voice already breathless, and straightens his back just a little apparently to be able to see more of the action playing out.

"Magnificent," Paul finishes for him, voice gasping too, both from the motion and from how awfully infatuated he suddenly feels, overwhelmed by the intensity of his desire for Richard for an uncountable time in his life yet still unable to deal with the consequences even so many years later. "You are magnificent."

All he can do is cling to Richard, hands travelling to Richard's hands to cover them and entwine their fingers together against the mirror, his legs in between Richard's making the latter spread his own a bit wider, his mouth on Richard's shoulder or the back of his neck or the side of his throat, kissing and licking the freshly washed skin as his cock slides in and out of Richard, smoothly, regularly, their naked bodies producing those deliciously obscene, yet also very quiet given the tempo they've set, slapping sounds of flesh on flesh.

Fatigued as he is, Paul doesn't have much endurance to drag it on for long tonight, nor will Richard be capable of withstanding it, he's sure, but he's still determined to make every effort to turn this into something both of them will remember for long. So he does what Richard loves best – he fucks him slowly and methodically, allowing the pleasure to build inside of him gradually but as inevitably as a tidal wave, until the moment it becomes so overwhelming Richard's legs start to tremble beneath him. Paul knows that if they were in bed now, he'd be lying prostrated with his eyes closed or his forearms pressed across his mouth or with his face buried into the mattress, utterly undone and not even asking Paul to fuck him harder, or faster, or to do anything at all, but producing an arousing symphony of hushed noises instead, allowing the pleasure to slowly fill him to the point where his body simply can't take it anymore and starts thrashing under Paul in what always looks like a sort of a full-body orgasm.

Now, though, Richard's not in bed but trapped between Paul and the mirror, barely able to support his weight with his forearms pressed against the surface but with his eyes still open and his face distorted into a grimace of what might come as pain if Paul didn't know better. His own muscles protesting from such exertion at the end of a very long day, Paul is still determined to show Richard what a truly marvellous sight he makes when he comes, so he slides his hand down to Richard's so far neglected cock, standing proudly stiff and occasionally leaving a smear or two of his precum in the mirror surface. Holding his lover securely around his waist with his other arm, Paul synchronises the motion of his hand on Richard's flesh with his own motion inside of him, making sure he hits his prostate at the same moment his fingers come close to the sensitive glans, thus making Richard produce an unrestrained harmony of ragged sobs of pleasure.

"Look," Paul gasps when Richard once again closes his eyes in what appears to be a proper delirium. The veins on his temples and the sides of his neck stand out prominently, the tendons going down from his jaws to the collar bones strained with tension. "You're so beautiful."

"Let me come, Paul," Richard all but chokes out against his forearm but opens his eyes all the same, looking down at his own dick being jacked off by Paul's relentless hand. "Please, I just… fuck… I can't stand it anymore."

"I love you so much," Paul whispers against his cheek, aiming close to Richard's ear.

He isn't saying it to spur on Richard's release, the words are out because this is what he truly feels, in every single cell of his being, but it does seem to give Richard a push over the edge all the same. He cries out softly as his body jerks, his every single muscle seeming to quiver with tension right beneath Paul's hands, his forehead pushed into the mirror, hands clawing fruitlessly at its slippery smooth and now also wet surface, but Paul knows that he watches everything all the same, watches how his semen shoots onto the mirror surface, leaving there white viscous splashes which treacle slowly downwards until Paul's hand milks him dry.

Paul does pull out then, knowing from experience that if he makes another couple of thrusts and keeps this on, Richard's legs will definitely betray him – he's way too sensitive to such treatment after he's just come. With his lips on the side of Richard's throat, he brings himself to his own release with his hand, the tip of his cock snug between Richard's buttocks, muffling words of love again and again into Richard's sweat-coated skin, feeling Richard's hand covering his, the one still pressed to his stomach, and squeezing it tight, staying with Paul until he's completely spent, too.

Afterwards, by what seems like some miracle as both can barely drag their feet, they end up in bed, sprawled alongside each other. Paul can swear that there's no better feeling in the world than finally having a soft mattress to crash onto after an endless day full of so many events of utmost importance, and to be able to do it with someone he has loved for the past two decades and who has made it all possible, thanks to his stubbornness and relentlessness, both of them happy and satiated and, somehow, despite all hurdles life has thrown at them, together, just like they were so many years ago, content in each other's company. This feeling is truly precious, a treasure they must protect and preserve at all costs.

They lie entangled into each other's limbs even now when there's seemingly not even a residue of the sexual desire left, just the warmth and affection and peace, and Paul can't help but bask in it, peace being such an uncommon state in his and Richard's tumultuous relationship and thus to be savoured and cherished.

"Are you happy?" he asks softly, lips pressed to Richard's brow as he speaks.

Before he replies, Richard shifts in the hold of Paul's arms and props himself on his elbow so that his face ends up hovering over Paul's, sleepy and tired yet also somehow unusually untroubled and unguarded, reminding Paul of the times so long gone yet still so vivid in his memory, those long hot summer nights, fragrance of fields in the air, salty breeze from the Baltic sea, wet pavement on a late night in Berlin, all of those recollections connected with each other by one single thing, something Paul could barely imagine his life without at that time – Richard, his strong arms around his middle and blue-grey eyes radiating good cheer and affection so palpable Paul could not have resisted it even if he had wanted to. He didn't then, and he doesn't now, allowing himself to drown and lose himself in that gaze, the amount of love and tenderness only increasing with the years they've spent together.

"I am the happiest…" Richard murmurs meanwhile, pressing a soft little peck onto Paul's mouth, "The luckiest…" he goes on, accentuating it with another kiss, "The most thoroughly-loved man alive."

In response, Paul can only grin back at him, feeling awfully, unforgivably untroubled, too. When Richard moves closer again, his lips end up on Paul's cheek and then travel to his ear.

"It's weird that it was your birthday just the other day," he speaks quietly, "but somehow it's me who's getting all the presents."

"That's because I got mine long ago," Paul murmurs. "You."

Albeit true, it still sounds horrendously cliched, but Paul's willing to repeat it a hundred times more just to make this kind of smile grace Richard's face again and again.

**Author's Note:**

> I guess this is my thanks to you, Cecirosenrot, for dragging me here, and I hope it won't disappoint even though I'm still puzzled by how you haven't got fed up with my scribbles over the past... jeeez, how many years has it been? XD 
> 
> This was inspired by Richard mentioning that he jumped like a Teddy Bear when he heard that their only show in New York was sold out, and I couldn't resist making him even happier by ~~finally~~ making that stubborn troll he's in love with love him back XD There's no jumping going on in this fic but there are other activities involved. 
> 
> *'What Can I Give You?' by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds


End file.
